


Everything's Crashing Down

by GreyMichaela



Series: Remember [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Demisexual Sidney, Demisexuality, Flower's had it with his shit, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Praise Kink, Sid's a little bit dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 19:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16729485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: Geno doesn’t feel the same way, and that’s okay. Sid doesn’t need him to, most of the time. He’s okay keeping his secret, holding it close to his heart. It’s only sometimes, when his house feels especially empty and cold, or his bed especially large, that he wishes—quietly, so quietly even he can barely hear it—that Geno liked men, that Geno likedhim, that he had someone to hold. To hold him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lodestone is fighting me, so I pulled it. I didn't want the pressure of it being unfinished when I couldn't commit to a regular update schedule. 
> 
> In the meantime, I had an idea for demisexual!Sidney the day before yesterday and it demanded to be written, so I hope this will hold you guys over until I can wrestle Lodestone under control.
> 
> For reference, this is _very_ loosely based on the year so far (2018), with some handwaving when I needed it.
> 
> STANDARD DISCLAIMER: this fic is about real people but NOT rooted in reality. No disrespect is intended to any of the people involved.

Sid has been in love with Geno for ten years.

He accepted this fact a long time ago, and he’s made his peace with it.

Geno doesn’t feel the same way, and that’s okay. Sid doesn’t need him to, most of the time. He’s okay keeping his secret, holding it close to his heart. It’s only sometimes, when his house feels especially empty and cold, or his bed especially large, that he wishes—quietly, so quietly even he can barely hear it—that Geno liked men, that Geno liked _him,_ that he had someone to hold. To hold him.

Then he shakes it off and puts on his captain face and focuses on what matters. Hockey. The Penguins. The Cup. Everything else is a distant second.

 

They win a Cup. And then they win another one. Sid allows himself the brief loss of self-control of pressing his face into Geno’s throat as they hug afterward, telling himself he’s drunk and so is Geno and it doesn’t mean anything.

 

He’s there for Geno after Sochi, sitting quietly beside him and letting him cry, one hand steady on Geno’s back.

 

He’s there when Anna leaves Geno, getting him thoroughly drunk. Geno talks in a mixture of slurred English and incomprehensible Russian as Sid listens and pours more vodka.

He’s there the next morning when Geno wakes up with a violent hangover, ready with Gatorade and Tylenol and greasy food.

“Just this once,” he tells him when Geno protests, and Geno sits at Sid’s counter and eats bacon and flapjacks and eggs fried in butter, until the tightness around his eyes has eased and his smile almost appears once or twice.

 

He watches Geno pick up a pretty girl at the bar after a win months later, watches Geno laugh at her jokes and tell his own, long arms waving to emphasize the punchline.

He’s ready for it when Geno leaves with her, face schooled when Geno scans the room until he finds Sid, and lifts his beer in silent encouragement when their eyes meet.

Geno smiles and leaves, hand on the small of the girl’s back, and Sid turns his attention to getting well and truly drunk.

 

Sid will never have Geno, and he has to be okay with that, because it’s not going to change. He already has so much, and he chides himself for wanting more, being greedy.

He’s never understood the locker room talk of sexual conquests, boasting about the women in their beds, the not-so-subtle competitions for the attention of the prettiest woman in a room. Sid lets them talk, keeps his mouth shut and stays out of it unless someone says something degrading. Then he steps in, shuts it down hard, leaves them chastened and silent.

Sid doesn’t date. He’s never gotten the point, why the guys enjoy it, what there is to be gained in the relentless pursuit. If and when he needs to get off, he has a perfectly good right hand. He doesn’t think about anyone when he’s doing it, either—it’s simply a quick and easy stress relief fix for him. Which is why he’s more than a little flummoxed the first time he fantasizes about Geno while jacking off.

It takes him a while to be able to look Geno in the eye after that, convinced Geno will read the guilt on him. It takes him even longer to touch himself again, but eventually the stress is too much, exhaustion and frustration and all the million tiny things that chafe his nerves driving him to wrap a hand around his length just long enough to bring himself off.

He won’t think about Geno this time, he tells himself, and that was exactly the wrong way to go, because now he can’t think about anything _but,_ Geno’s big hands and lush mouth and long legs, Geno looking at him, Geno worshiping Sid’s body, and Sid is arching and coming on a muffled whimper before he knows it.

So that’s a thing.

Sid does his best to roll with it. It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. Doesn’t _have_ to mean anything. He’s not going to act on it, after all. And if it helps to think about discovering and exploring Geno’s body during his rare moments of downtime, well… he keeps it to himself, makes extra sure he doesn’t look at Geno in the locker room, and puts it to the back of his mind as best he can.

They’re not having a good season so far. A string of losses in a row, some of them brutal. A trade that shocked everyone, even those who knew it had been considered. Sid set aside some extra time for Horny, who took it even harder than the others.

Sid is kept out of play for a week with an upper body injury, forced to watch the team lose and lose again, grinding his teeth with frustration until he’s finally allowed back on the ice.

“There’s plenty of time,” he tells the rookies. “So much more of the season still to come. What matters is that you do your best.”

He notices, of course he does, that Geno is sticking closer to him than usual. Sits beside him when they go out, one long arm slung along the back of Sid’s chair as he talks to their teammates. Ends up across the aisle from him on the plane more often than not, even if they don’t speak. The silence is comforting, somehow. As is the way Geno falls into step beside him when Sid takes his circuitous path to find the visitors’ locker room on an away game.

“You don’t have to—” Sid starts.

Geno gives him a look. “Don’t have to. Want to.”

There’s a small part of Sid that feels guilty for making Geno wander seemingly endlessly through a confusing maze of halls. But there’s another, bigger part, that is comforted by his silent, steady presence at Sid’s side, so he shuts up and concentrates on finding their way.

After that, Geno comes with him every time. They don’t talk about it, but he picks up his bag and follows Sid through the halls without speaking. Sid can’t help the relief that hits him like a slap every time Geno catches up to him, every time wondering if this is the day he’ll decide to take the easy route instead. But he doesn’t ask, and Geno doesn’t offer anything.

Sid doesn’t read anything into it. Geno’s a friend—a good friend, someone Sid trusts implicitly, but he also never does anything he doesn’t want to do. If he’s there, it’s because it suits him to be there, and Sid will take it at face value.

 

Geno hates losing. They all do, of course, but Geno takes it especially hard. So Sid is wary, when he shows up at Sid’s house one night after a particularly rough loss, shoulders drooping and mouth set. But Geno doesn’t say anything. He grabs a beer from the fridge and collapses on the other end of the couch from Sid and they watch House Hunting episodes together until Sid’s eyes are gritty and he’s biting back yawns.

“Go to bed, Sid,” Geno finally says. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sid says, levering himself up from the couch.

Geno doesn’t look at him when he leaves. He just flips a hand in a vague wave and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him, but somehow, Sid feels better anyway, lighter. He sleeps soundly that night, something he never does after a loss, and wakes feeling refreshed.

 

Which is why Sid isn’t really surprised when Geno knocks on his hotel door after an away game that they’ve also lost. Sid steps back silently and Geno shuffles inside. He’s in his sock-feet, carrying his shoes in one hand, his game day suit disheveled and tie hanging loose.

They don’t speak. Geno takes his jacket off, slings it over a chair. Sid gets back into the bed and picks up the remote to resume channel surfing as Geno rolls his sleeves up and rounds the bed to climb in the other side, sitting up with his back against the headboard.

After a minute, he makes an annoyed noise and grabs the remote from Sid’s hand.

“Hey!” Sid protests.

Geno slants a look at him and begins scrolling more slowly through the channels. He stops on a blockbuster action flick with a lot of explosions and puts the remote down, pointedly on his far side, away from Sid.

Sid huffs, but he’s still too beat up from the loss and emotionally raw to argue. Instead he slumps down against the pillows and does his best not to notice how close Geno is, just a few inches away on the bed, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

He falls asleep to the sound of gunfire from the TV and Geno’s soft breathing beside him. He’s alone in the bed when he wakes up, but the extra blanket has been draped over him and carefully tucked in.

 

Back home in Pittsburgh, they hit a hot streak and start winning games again. Kessel carries a game nearly on his own, then Sid and Geno snatch another out from under the nose of the Stars.  

They’re still at the bottom of the standings but this is a start, this is good. Sully’s still glowering but he’s not shouting as much. The mood is cautiously hopeful as December blows in cold and wet.

 

Sid goes to the Christmas party, having begged Taylor to help him find the ugliest Christmas sweater possible. He thinks he’ll probably win the competition this year.

He’s greeted by Letang in a blinding neon yellow and orange monstrosity.

“Cath found it,” he tells Sid proudly.

“It’s terrible,” Sid says, shielding his eyes, and Letang laughs as they head into the building where everyone is gathered.

The children are milling around, getting underfoot, and Alex runs up and flings his arms around Sid’s knees before he’s even through the door.

Sid pretends to stagger and sweeps him up into his arms. “Hey you,” he says, poking Alex in the ribs and making him squirm and giggle. “Whose sweater is better, mine or your daddy’s?”

Alex regards Sid’s sweater with its Christmas tree complete with tiny blinking lights and real ornaments hung on the knitted branches, the entire thing festooned with tinsel. “Yours,” he says gravely.

Sid crows with delight as Letang mock-glowers at his son and Alex giggles again, then squirms to get down. Sid scans the crowd as Alex scampers off. There are a few partners he hasn’t met yet—he’ll need to do that tonight, make sure he gets their names.

“How many came without dates?” he asks Letang, who hands him a cup of punch.

“Besides you?”

Sid ignores this as not worth his time.

“Tristan, Zach, and Geno.”

“No date for Geno?” Sid asks, genuinely surprised. Geno always brings someone to the Christmas party—the last few years it had been Anna, of course, but even before that, he invariably had someone on his arm.

Letang shrugs. “He’s stopped picking up recently.”

“Wait, really?”

“You haven’t noticed?” Letang says, narrowing his eyes. “You notice everything, Sid.”

“You make me sound like Sherlock,” Sid mutters. “I’ve been busy, okay? Keeping tabs on Geno’s love life isn’t really part of my job description.”

“Sure,” Letang says. “I know he’s tried a few times since Anna, but it’s been about a month, I think, since he’s closed it.”

Huh. Sid really _should_ have noticed this. He ponders it as he works his way through the crowd, smiling and hugging those he’s willing to have touch him, holding out his hand to others. Occasionally a new wife or girlfriend will ignore his physical cues and hug him anyway, and he always has to fight to not pull away, to smile and stand still until they release him.

The memo must not have gone out this evening, though, because no fewer than three throw their arms around him.

By the time Sid’s finished his circuit of the room, he’s twitchy and tense, and he hasn’t seen Geno at all.

He slips into a dark room for a quick breather and is startled by Geno, sitting in a chair in the corner.

“G?” Sid says, squinting in the dark. “Why are you in here with the lights off?”

Geno mutters something, and Sid crosses the room to sit on the chair next to him, perching awkwardly on the edge.

“You okay?”

“Needed break,” Geno says. He sounds tired. “Lots of hugging. Have to smile. Pretend I know them.”

Sid snorts. “Like you’ve ever bothered to memorize a name that’s not relevant to you personally.”

Geno’s eyes glint briefly in the dim room, but then he looks down at the punch he’s holding loosely in one big hand.

“What’s really going on?” Sid asks.

Geno sighs. “Nothing, Sid. Am okay.”

“No you’re not,” Sid says. “I know you. And I know what you look like when you’re okay. This—” He gestures. “—isn’t it.”

“I thought I could make work with Anna,” Geno blurts, and Sid freezes. Geno sounds heavy with misery, and Sid holds very still, letting him sort through and choose his words.

“I’m know she’s not happy, long time now,” Geno continues. “But I try, I do—”

“I know you did,” Sid says gently. He’d seen Geno trying; the flowers, the jewelry, the lavish vacations.

“We ask so much,” Geno says. “Is hard life, you know? Money—” He shakes his head. “Not enough.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sid says.

Geno blows out a breath and drains his punch. “Sorry, Sid. I’m stupid, drink too much, get sad.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Sid says. He takes a chance and puts one hand on Geno’s knee. “Everyone’s a little stupid sometimes.”

Geno looks down at Sid’s hand and up into his face. His eyes are liquid pools in the dark, and Sid can barely make out his face.

“Sid—” Geno says, and the door swings open, lights flicking on.

Olli is standing in the doorway, eyebrows high as he takes in the tableau in front of him, and Sid jerks his hand back and stands.

“I found them,” Olli calls to someone behind him. “Sorry, Sid,” he says when he turns back. “Geno. Didn’t mean to interrupt but we’re about to eat.”

Geno nods and stands, and Sid gets his first look at his sweater. He groans out loud.

“Oh come on, you’re definitely going to win.”

Geno looks down at the stuffed deer head protruding from the Christmas wreath on his chest and gives Sid his first real smile of the night. “You like?”

“No, I hate it, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen and you’ll give the kids nightmares.”

He counts Geno’s laugh as a victory as they head for the common room where the food is waiting.

 

January brings freezing rain and wind that tugs at Sid’s coat with icy fingers. They’re winning more than they’re losing, but Sid isn’t sure it’ll be enough, that they’ll make it to the playoffs at this rate.

He doesn’t say that out loud, of course—he’s not an idiot.

Anyway, the team is coming together, and as much as Sid wants another Cup, dreams of hoisting it again, the simple truth is it’s not always about winning. It’s also about the way the team meshes, how they communicate on the ice. They’re playing excellent hockey, and that’s what Sid wants, what he pushes them for every day.

He settles a dispute between two rookies, sitting them down and mediating as they talk out their grievances. When they’re done, the air cleared, Sid puts them on a line together and is delighted to see the chemistry that sparks immediately.

Geno still comes to him after losses. They don’t speak, don’t acknowledge it, but Sid knows now to expect a knock on his door, at home or away.

Geno is still not picking up, now that Sid is watching for it. He sits close to Sid when they go out, smiles and talks and drinks, but he shows no interest in the pretty women bold enough to make advances.

Sid doesn’t know what it means, but he knows Geno won’t talk about it. So he does the next best thing. He calls Flower.

“‘Allo, _cher,”_ Flower says when he picks up, and Sid has to squeeze his eyes shut against the stinging in them. “Sid?” Flower sounds alarmed now.

“Sorry.” Sid clears his throat. “Um. Hi.”

Flower laughs quietly. “How are you? Freezing that giant ass off?”

“Every damn day,” Sid says, smiling. “I heard the news, congratulations.”

 _“Merci,”_ Flower says, and he sounds proud and delighted.

“How’s Vero?”

“She’s a champ, that one,” Flower says. “Better than I deserve.”

“Definitely,” Sid agrees. “Are the girls excited?”

“Oh, _oui,”_ Flower says. “Estelle wants to name him. He would be Prince Twinkleshine or something if she had her way.”

“I miss you,” Sid blurts, and immediately wants to take it back. This is the name of the game. He knows it. Flower knows it. It’s selfish and ungrateful to wish for more than he’s got.

Flower just sighs. “I miss you too, _cher._ The team here is good—they’re good to me, make me feel so welcome, but….” He trails off.

This is the part about hockey Sid hates. It makes him feel guilty wishing anything about his beloved sport would change, but if he could choose, he’d choose to have his best friend back in Pittsburgh with him in a heartbeat and damn the consequences.

“You didn’t call me to talk about trades or pregnancies,” Flower says. “How’s the team?”

“The team is good,” Sid says. He leans back on the couch, staring at the episode of River Monsters without really seeing it. “The trade hurt, but the new guy’s doing well. Found his footing right away, dove in. Gets along well with the others.”

Flower hums. “How’s Matt?”

Sid winces. “IR for awhile longer. Tristan’s really stepped up, though. He’s a good kid.”

“And Geno?”

Sid hesitates.

“Ah.” Flower’s voice is soft with understanding.

Sid closes his eyes. “It’s—Anna leaving hit him hard. He said he thought he could make it work with her.”

“And you, _cher?”_ Flower asks gently. “How are you?”

Sid grinds the heel of his hand against his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says. The silence tells him how much Flower believes him, and Sid sighs. “I’m not fine,” he admits.

“Tell me,” Flower orders, and Sid does.

He spills it all out, how Geno’s been acting, him coming to Sid after games, the way he’s not even trying to date, his odd, melancholic turn at the Christmas party.

Flower lets him ramble, asking questions occasionally and listening intently. When Sid falters to a stop, Flower sighs.

“You’re still in love with him.” It’s not a question.

“Pretty sure that’s not going away,” Sid manages around the lump in his throat. “I was handling it, I _was,_ but now he’s there every time I turn around and i-it’s so much harder to deal with when I can’t even get away from h-him, I _want—”_ He breaks off but it’s too late.

“You want?” Flower’s voice is sharp. “What do you want, Sid?”

“Him,” Sid whispers, and it feels like stepping off a cliff, like plunging into icy water, the admission hanging raw and hopeless in the air as he falls.

Flower swears quietly in French. “That’s new, yes?” he says after a minute. “You never wanted… before.”

“I don’t know when it happened,” Sid admits. “It’s been growing for a while, I think. But I can’t stop thinking about—things. Him. What it would be like.”

There’s a rustle, Flower protesting sharply in the distance, and then Vero’s on the phone.

“You have to tell him, Sid,” she says.

Sid can’t help the laugh, shaky as it is. “Hi, V. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she says. “Don’t change the subject. Tell him how you feel.”

“Not happening,” Sid says, and it’s too harsh but he can’t figure out how to soften it.

Vero makes a soft noise. “You deserve so much, Sid. You deserve happiness.”

“I _am_ happy,” Sid protests, but his traitorous eyes are stinging again.

“You could be happier,” Vero says gently. “Don’t you think you owe it to the team to be the best version of yourself possible?”

Sid feels like he’s been punched. “That’s unfair,” he manages.

“Is it?” Vero says. “Who is it unfair to? Because from where I sit, you’re the one suffering. You’re the one who can’t move forward, get on with your life.”

“Are you saying the team isn’t winning because _I’m_ not happy?” Sid asks, anger trickling through the misery filling him like cotton wool. “That’s bullshit, V, you _know_ that’s—”

“I’m _not,”_ Vero says sharply. “I wouldn’t, Sid. You know that. The team….” She sighs. “You’re the heart of them, we know this. When you’re happy, they’re happy. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about finding your peace. Not everything is about hockey, _ami._ You deserve happiness off the ice as well.”

Flower says something in the background and Vero replies softly in French.

“I’m giving the phone back,” she tells Sid. “Please know that I love you and I only said anything at all because I want you to be happy.”

“I love you too,” Sid whispers, and then Flower is back.

“Sorry, _cher,_ she’s impossible. You see what my life is like.”

“It’s rough,” Sid agrees, an unwilling smile tugging at his mouth. “You know I can’t, though, right?”

“I know you think you can’t,” Flower says.

“It would upset everything,” Sid says. “Even if he—say he did feel the same way. What happens when it goes wrong? What happens when he can’t stand my ‘quirks’ any longer? Am I still supposed to put myself ahead of the team when that happens? We both signed contracts, Flower. We can’t get away from each other, and if I did something stupid like telling him how I feel and _then_ it goes sideways? You know it’ll fuck everything up, you _know_ it will.” He falls silent, gulping air.

Flower doesn’t speak for a moment. “I know,” he says finally. “But I want to ask you something. Why are you so sure it will go wrong?”

“Because I’m _me,”_ Sid bursts out. “I’m awkward and neurotic and demanding and sooner or later he’ll have enough of it and want to leave but he won’t be able to and then we’ll be trapped together while he hates me and the team will—”

 _“Stop,”_ Flower orders, and Sid sucks in a ragged breath. “How little you think of yourself,” Flower murmurs, and there’s something like grief in his voice. “Sidney, listen to me. Geno’s had plenty of opportunities to walk away from the team, from you. He could have made his mark with another team, stepped out of your shadow anytime he wanted to. He chose not to. He chose to stay. With you. You think he doesn’t know you by now? You think there’s anything about you that would scare him away? If it hasn’t happened yet, it’s _never going to happen.”_

Tears slide down Sid’s face, scalding hot, but he doesn’t move to wipe them away. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispers. “Because even if—” He swallows hard and tries again. “Even if that were true, he’s not attracted to men. So it’s a moot point. It’ll never happen, and it’s stupid and useless to talk about it like there’s a possibility.”

“Sid, you know how Russia feels about gay people, yes?”

Sid nods, even though Flower can’t see him.

“Did you ever think maybe, just maybe, if someone is attracted to more than one gender, and one of those genders is ‘safe’ to be attracted to but the other is not, the other could cause you to lose your citizenship, your chance to represent the country you love at Worlds and the Olympics, and never see your family again—don’t you think it would be safer to hide your attraction to that gender? Pretend it’s not there?”

“He’s never said anything,” Sid says, and he knows it’s weak.

“Why would he?” Flower counters. “It’s not worth risking, from his perspective. And you—” He breaks off.

“What about me?”

“You don’t date,” Flower says. “You don’t sleep around. Why would he even think of trying, when he already knows these things about you?”

“What are you saying?” Sid asks.

“I’m saying talk to him,” Flower tells him. “Trust him enough to give him at least some of your secrets. Perhaps he will trust you in return.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then he doesn’t,” Flower says simply. “But he will still be your teammate, your friend. And I think you will not fully begin to live until you say something.”

Sid closes his eyes. "Tell me what the girls have been doing."

Flower laughs quietly and obeys.


	2. Chapter 2

February blows in frigid and miserable, freezing the roads and making moods snappish and surly. Sid spends more time talking to everyone one-on-one, letting them vent and listening to their frustrations, getting them on the ice when talking doesn’t work.

They’re clawing their way up through the standings, winning a few more than they lose on average. Sid keeps his captain face on, talks everyone up, reminds them why they’re here through every game.

He hasn’t spoken to Geno yet. Every time he thinks he’ll get the courage up and say something, he loses his nerve at the last moment. _Things are okay right now,_ he tells himself, knowing he’s lying. Still, he doesn’t want to rock the boat. Not when they’re so close.

They play the Capitals near the end of February and Holtby shuts them out decisively. He’s a brick wall, no one able to find a way past him into the net. The Penguins straggle off the ice and into the locker room in morose silence. Sid knows he should be encouraging them, reminding them that it’s not over yet, but he just… can’t. He keeps his head down, answers the reporters as briefly as possible, and bolts the second he’s able.

 _Coward,_ he tells himself as he flees, but he keeps driving. The misery inside him is clawing at his throat, threatening to rip him open. He swallows it back and concentrates on the road.

Safely home, he steps out of his shoes and goes upstairs. He needs someone’s arms around him, he needs to be held and comforted and told it’s not his fault, but Sid’s the leader of the team. He doesn’t get to have that.

So instead he strips to his undershirt and boxers and crawls into the bed, pulling a pillow to his chest and drawing his knees up as he stares blindly at the wall. His phone buzzes on the nightstand but Sid doesn’t answer it.

He’s not sure how long he lies there before he hears footsteps coming down the hall. It’s a testament, perhaps, to how wrung out he is that the realization that he forgot to lock the front door doesn’t panic him.

When Geno appears in the doorway, Sid doesn’t bother to acknowledge him.

“Oh, Sid,” Geno says quietly.

Sid can hear him stepping inside the room, taking off his shoes, but he doesn’t look. He’s holding on by his fingernails now, knowing that if his control slips for an instant, he’s done for.

Geno goes around to the far side of the bed and the mattress dips as he slides on and snugs himself up close to Sid’s body. He wraps one arm around Sid’s waist, breath warm on the nape of his neck, and Sid takes a shuddering breath, then another.

“Is okay,” Geno murmurs. “Can cry, if you need.”

Sid shakes his head blindly. His throat is so clogged it’s a miracle he’s able to breathe. He realizes vaguely that he’s trembling, but it’s a distant concern. Every year, his chances of captaining them to another Cup win get slimmer. Every year, he gets a fraction slower, needs more time to come back from injuries. He knows, deep in his bones, that if he doesn’t manage it soon, it’s not going to happen at all. And he doesn’t know how to get them there.

Geno’s arm tightens and Sid realizes he’s crying. The dam is broken and he’s helpless to stop the sobs that rip from his chest.

“I can’t,” he manages through the tears. “C-can’t, G, not s-strong enough—”

“Are,” Geno says fiercely, lips warm on Sid’s skin. “Strongest. Best. So good, Sid. So good captain. So proud to play with you, be your friend.”

Sid shakes his head again and rolls over in Geno’s arms, burrowing into Geno’s chest and letting the grief and exhaustion and misery of the season roar through him as Geno holds him and croons to him in Russian. Sid is helpless to do anything but weep, clutching Geno’s shirt in trembling fingers and his leg wedged between Geno’s thighs, their bodies plastered together.

“I wanted to give y-you another Cup,” he says, or thinks he says, at one point, when the worst of the tears have passed. He’s limp and exhausted, empty and washed clean. “You deserve—”

“Don’t need another Cup,” Geno says. Sid can feel his heart beating against his cheek where it’s pressed to Geno’s chest. “Need you, Sid. Don’t need anything else.”

“I love you so much,” Sid says, and it’s like he’s helpless to stop the words. They flow from him in a torrent, everything he’s been bottling up for the last ten years bursting from him in a wild rush. “I want to give you everything, I want you to be _happy,_ I hate it when you’re sad. I th-thought if I could give you the Cup again, it would make you smile again, I—” He breaks off and shoves his face harder into Geno’s chest as faint horror floods his stomach. Oh god, what has he done?

Geno is very, very still against him. Then he moves, pulling away and rolling off the bed.

Alone, Sid curls into a ball, fatality settling over him like a silken mantle. He’s too tired even to cry now. He’s told Geno how he felt, and Geno doesn’t feel the same way, like Sid knew he didn't. Sid will grieve for that, when he’s strong enough. Right now he’s just… empty.

Then the mattress dips again and Geno is there, hands warm on Sid’s arms, urging him to a sitting position as he kneels beside him. Sid cooperates dully, limbs sluggish.

The washcloth is warm as Geno wipes his face in tender strokes, brow furrowed and tongue peeking out from between his teeth. Sid watches him, Geno’s beloved, beautiful face so close to his own, brown eyes full of concern. Sid’s thoughts are slow and nebulous, difficult to form.

“What—are you doing?” he finally whispers.

Geno tosses the washcloth toward the bathroom and turns back to Sid, cupping his face in both huge hands. His smile is heartbreaking in its tenderness before it skews toward mischievous.

“I’m not kiss you when you’re gross,” he says, and presses their mouths together.

Sid’s brain whites out in shock. Geno. _Geno_ is kissing him, Geno is running his tongue so delicately along the seam of Sid’s lips, asking but not demanding entry. This isn’t real. He’s hallucinating.

Geno pulls back, looking suddenly hesitant. “Shouldn’t have done?” he says. “Sorry, Sid, I—”

Sid somehow remembers how to move, grabbing Geno’s head and dragging him down into another kiss. Geno groans and goes willingly. His mouth is warm and sweet, his tongue soft as he strokes it lightly over Sid’s.

“Love you, Sid,” he mumbles between kisses. He gets his hands on Sid’s waist and hauls him up to straddle his thighs, leaving Sid breathless at being manhandled. Like this, he’s taller than Geno, albeit barely, and he can tilt Geno’s head back, fisting a hand in his curls to hold him in place so Sid can properly plunder his mouth.

Geno makes a hurt noise, dragging Sid closer and opening for him. “It’s okay,” he gasps when Sid breaks away briefly for air.

Sid kisses Geno’s jaw, rough with stubble. “What’s okay?” he asks. He’s still half-convinced he’s dreaming, floating just above his body.

“I’m not need sex,” Geno pants, pulling back enough to look into Sid’s eyes. “If you’re not mind I jack off sometimes, is okay. I’m just need you.”

His eyes are dark and sincere, gazing into Sid’s, and Sid is swamped with emotion too huge to put a name to. He buries his face in Geno’s throat, wrapping his arms around him, and feels Geno looping his own around Sid’s hips, holding him close.

They stay like that for several minutes, their breathing the only sound in the quiet room. Sid can feel Geno’s pulse against his lips, fast but steady, and he can’t resist kissing him there. Geno shivers but says nothing.

“I’ve never had sex,” Sid blurts, lifting his head.

Geno nods. There’s no surprise on his face. “I’m think that. Not ever?”

“I let a boy at Shattuck put his hand down my pants once, but we didn’t get anywhere,” Sid admits. He shifts his weight. “Your knee—”

Geno clamps his hands on Sid’s waist. “Don’t move,” he orders. “Just talk.”

“Okay,” Sid says, almost laughing. He drops another kiss on the corner of Geno’s lips and lets Geno turn his head and chase his mouth, capturing it in a sweet, slick slide.

It takes a few minutes for Geno to tear away, his breath unsteady. “Not talking,” he complains. His mouth is red and wet, pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost black.

“Sorry,” Sid manages. “Are you sure I’m not dreaming?”

Geno pinches him.

_“Ow!”_

Geno grins, unrepentant. “Still think?”

“Asshole,” Sid mutters, and kisses him again, quick and soft. “Okay, um, where was I.”

“Shattuck,” Geno prompts.

“Right. I wanted to know… what the other boys were talking about. But it didn’t….” Sid shrugs. “I didn’t want it, when it came down to it. It seemed more hassle than anything, honestly. So I just… stopped trying. I had hockey, anyway. I didn’t have _time_ for sex, not when it felt like a chore.”

Geno nods again. “Sorry you feel that way, but tell you, is okay. I’m not ask you for this.”

“Not done,” Sid says. Despite Geno’s protests, he slides off his lap and lies down on his side, pulling Geno down with him until they’re almost nose-to-nose. “I’ve wanted _you_ for years.”

Geno’s eyes go wide. “Sid. Really?”

Sid nods, suddenly shy. “I, ah—think about you when I’m… you know.” He makes a vague gesture, and Geno makes a delighted noise.

“You’re think about me when jack off!” He looks _thrilled,_ his huge goofy grin spreading from ear to ear, and Sid laughs helplessly and leans in to kiss him, sinking into Geno’s warmth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs between kisses. “I think about you a _lot._ But I thought you didn’t—you’ve only dated women.”

“Dated, yes,” Geno says.

“You—oh.”

Geno lifts his shoulder. “Not happen often. Only when safe. When can’t stop thinking about you. I stopped, when Anna—” His mouth twists. “But then she leave anyway, because she’s know I’m love you and can’t stop.”

“Oh Jesus,” Sid says, horrified. “Geno, I wrecked your marriage, oh _no,_ how can you ever forgive me?”

Geno covers his mouth with one hand. “You’re _not_ wreck marriage,” he says firmly. “Never should have married her. Was trying to get over you.” He shrugs again. “Didn’t work.”

“Oh God, poor Anna,” Sid says when Geno removes his hand.

“Yes,” Geno says. Regret flashes across his face. “Didn’t mean to hurt her. I’m feel like shit for long time. But she’s say she forgive me. She has boyfriend now, in Moscow. Sounds happy, when I’m talk to her.”

“That’s good,” Sid says. The yawn catches him unawares, his jaw popping with the force of it, and he covers his mouth, horrified at his lack of manners. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, G, you’re not boring me, I swear—”

Geno laughs quietly and kisses the tip of his nose. “Tired Sid,” he murmurs, tone rich with affection. “Go to sleep. We talk more when you rested.”

“Will you stay?” Sid can feel the exhaustion tugging at him, blurring his thoughts, but he holds it back, waiting for the answer.

“Always,” Geno whispers, and Sid’s last sight is of his smile before sleep takes him.

The first thing he becomes aware of when he wakes up is an overwhelming sense of happiness, rooted in his bones and spreading through his body in a warm flood. It takes Sid a minute to realize _why,_ and then Geno mutters something in his sleep, pulling Sid closer, and he remembers in a rush.

Geno loves him. Geno _loves_ him. Geno was willing to go without sex for the rest of his life if it meant he could be with Sid. Sid loves him so much he thinks he might choke on it. He knows, somehow, that they’re going to be okay. Maybe they’ll make it to the playoffs, maybe they won’t, but they’re going to be okay.

He moves in stages, wriggling out from under Geno’s heavy arm, holding his breath until he slips free. Geno rolls onto his stomach, mashing his face into the pillow, and Sid stands by the bed and stares at him for a moment, swamped with tenderness.

Then the needs of his body reassert themselves and he tiptoes to the bathroom. He uses the toilet, then brushes his teeth. When he’s done, he slips back into the bed. Geno rolls sideways just enough to tug him close again, and Sid relaxes into his body, smiling.

He dozes for a while, warm and comfortable, stirring briefly when Geno leaves the bed. He’s roused again by Geno plastering himself up along Sid’s back and rubbing a very unmistakable hard-on against his ass.

Sid wakes up with a jerk and Geno goes very still.

“Sorry, Sid,” he says, sounding unsure. “I’m not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He moves to pull away and Sid clamps a hand over Geno’s hip, holding him in place.

“Don’t stop,” he husks.

Geno groans, buries his face in Sid’s curls, and begins to move again. Sid pushes back into it, hardening rapidly as Geno’s breathing shortens and he snakes a hand over Sid’s hip to cup his length in his boxers. He runs a thumb up the underside and Sid twitches, stifling a moan.

“Want you so much,” Geno gasps. “Best, perfect Sid. So beautiful.”

Sid is almost dizzy with the arousal careening through his body, fingers and toes tingling and skin hypersensitive, every touch of Geno’s fingers, even the scrape of fabric across it making him shudder violently.

“G, Geno,” he pants. “Is this w-what it’s like every time?”

Geno bites down lightly on the tendon in Sid’s shoulder and Sid goes rigid, fighting the orgasm back with sheer effort.

“Always good,” Geno mutters, still grinding against Sid’s ass. “This—better than—” He lapses into Russian and rolls Sid onto his stomach suddenly, dragging his boxers down.

Sid fights the urge to squirm, exposed and vulnerable.

“Can I—”

Sid glances over his shoulder to see Geno hovering over him, mouth slack with wonder and eyes huge. “You can touch,” Sid says. “If I don’t like it, I’ll tell you to stop.”

“Yes, good,” Geno says. “You tell me, I’m stop.” Then his palms are on Sid’s ass, and Sid forgets how to think. Geno kneads and rubs the muscle, murmuring under his breath. He skims the curve with his thumbs, pulling the cheeks apart and squeezing them in reverent hands.

One finger ghosts over Sid’s hole and he can’t help the buck of his hips.

Geno catches his breath. “Sid. Lube?”

Sid struggles to form words. “Uh. Drawer. There.”

He feels Geno leaning across him, one hand on Sid’s shoulder to steady himself as he rummages in the drawer and comes up triumphant with a small tube.

“I don’t have condoms,” Sid says, face burning with embarrassment.

“I’m not need,” Geno assures him, leaning down to press their cheeks together briefly. “Think we save that for later, yes?”

“So what are you—” Sid’s not sure what Geno has in mind. He’s not sure what he wants. He’s not sure what he _likes._ He hesitates but finally says as much.

Geno bends and presses a kiss to Sid’s shoulder. “We’re find out what you like. If you don’t like, don’t want, just tell me.”

Sid can’t help it. He has to roll over and pull Geno down into another kiss. Geno goes willingly, stretching himself out along Sid’s body and grinding his length against Sid’s belly. Sid breaks the kiss to gasp, clutching at Geno’s sides as his hips roll.

“How,” he pants. “How is it so _good?”_

Geno’s grin is smug when he lifts his head and Sid can’t help the laugh.

“God, you’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”

Geno kisses the laughter from his mouth, humming happily. Then he rolls off and goes to his knees. “Want so much,” he murmurs. There’s something like awe on his face as he looks at Sid spread out in front of him. “Can I—”

Sid’s not sure what he’s asking, but he manages a nod that he hopes isn’t too frantic.

Geno crawls between his legs, nudging Sid’s thighs wider to give himself better access. Then he leans forward and blows gently across the head of Sid’s cock. Sid jams a fist in his mouth, and Geno’s eyes glint wickedly.

He takes his time, though, exploring with hands and mouth all over Sid’s groin, everywhere _except_ his cock, until Sid is shaking with the effort of being still.

“So pretty,” Geno croons, rubbing circles high on Sid’s inner thigh. “So strong. Perfect.”

Sid’s cock twitches and Geno’s eyebrows go up.

“You’re like that? Like I say nice things?”

Sid goes for a disaffected shrug but has a feeling he falls short, judging by the way Geno’s eyes go thoughtful and warm.

“My beautiful Sid,” Geno murmurs, and kisses the spot on Sid’s thigh, drags his tongue across the skin. “So good for me, so patient, so brave. You want I mark you?”

“Oh _God,”_ Sid chokes, and grabs the headboard, breathing harshly through his nose until the danger has passed. Geno waits, hands warm on Sid’s shins. Finally, Sid’s able to relax, and Geno pats his thigh.

“Doing so good, Sid,” he says, then drops his head and sucks a livid mark into Sid’s inner thigh.

Sid twists, crying out. The suction and the wet heat send sparks rippling up his spine, pressure building in his chest. He lets go of the headboard and grabs Geno’s head, pulling him up. Geno doesn’t look thrilled, his mouth wet and brows furrowing, but he takes a look at Sid’s face and understanding dawns.

He crawls up Sid’s body and kisses him, bracing himself on his elbows. “Okay if you come,” he whispers between kisses. “I’m just want you feel good.”

Sid clutches blindly at him, love and gratitude and awe swelling in his chest and making it hard to breathe. He’d resigned himself to never having this, to never knowing what Geno tasted like, how his hands would feel touching Sid’s body, and he’s overwhelmed by the reality of it. It’s so much _more_ than he’d thought it would be, and he doesn’t know how to express that to Geno and make himself understood.

Luckily, it seems he doesn’t have to. Geno’s trailing kisses down Sid’s jaw and whispering to him as he goes.

“Can’t do wrong,” he says, kissing the shell of Sid’s ear. “Is not graded. You come when you want, when you’re ready. Yes?”

“I just—” Sid swallows. “Don’t want it to be over too soon.”

“You think this is only time we do?” Geno teases gently. “Trust me, Sid, we do this many times. Many as you want.”

Sid nods and kisses him again. “I love you,” he says, just to feel the words in his mouth.

Geno kisses him back. “Love you too, Sid. Roll over, I’m have idea.”

“I can’t, there’s a very large hockey player on top of me,” Sid points out, fighting his grin.

Geno mock-growls and rolls off so Sid can flip over.

Facedown, he waits as Geno straddles him, nudging Sid’s thighs together when he instinctively tries to spread them. Then he fumbles for something—the lube, Sid realizes with a lurch—and folds himself forward, an elbow on either side of Sid’s shoulders.

Like this, Sid can feel Geno’s erection rubbing against his ass and he catches his breath.

“Relax,” Geno says in his ear. “You gonna like this, I’m think.”

He presses his cock to the seam of Sid’s thighs, at the crease where they met his ass, and then slips between, slick with lube. The head of his cock catches and rubs against Sid’s hole and nudges his balls, making Sid cry out, back arching helplessly.

“Geno, please,” he pants, and Geno groans and delivers.

He starts slow, pausing occasionally to add more lube and then building a rhythm until he’s fucking Sid’s thighs in earnest, every thrust making Sid’s cock drag along the mattress until he thinks he’s lit up from the inside, the glow under his skin surely visible to the naked eye.

“Please, _please,”_ he begs.

“You wanna come?” Geno asks, hips never losing rhythm. “Next time you want me fuck your pretty ass? Fill you up, make you scream?”

Sid bucks and moans.

“Or maybe you fuck me,” Geno continues. “I’m like that. Wanna feel—” He falters briefly. “Fuck, Sid—”

But Sid can’t hear him over the roaring in his ears as he comes and comes in helpless, shaking waves, his body shaping and reforming itself over and over in endless ripples of ecstasy. He’s only vaguely aware of Geno’s breath hitching as he plunges deep and spills between Sid’s thighs, hot liquid coating Sid’s balls and making him moan.

Geno collapses on top of him, breath frantic and unsteady in Sid’s ear.

“Sid,” he pants. “Sid, you okay?”

Sid evaluates, taking his time. He feels… so good, every muscle warm and relaxed, his brain quiet for the first time in—he can’t remember how long.

“Sid?” Geno is starting to sound worried, and Sid drags coherence together.

“I’m good,” he slurs.

Geno relaxes, rolling off Sid’s body and pulling him close. Sid goes willingly, until they’re plastered together in a long line of warmth. They’re gross and sticky and need to shower, but nothing seems more urgent than this, the skin-on-skin contact from head to toe. Cleanup can wait.

“Did you mean that?” Sid asks after a minute.

“Hmm?” Geno sounds half asleep. “Mean what?”

“What you, um, said,” Sid says, and he can _feel_ the blush firing his face. “At the end.”

Geno makes a noise of comprehension and kisses the nape of Sid’s neck.

“I mean,” he murmurs. “Mean very much. Want you to fuck me. Want you inside me.”

Sid’s spent dick twitches and he groans. “We’re gonna have to practice a lot,” he manages, and Geno huffs a quietly triumphant laugh.

Later, when they’re clean and dressed and they’ve eaten breakfast and gotten back into bed, Sid takes a surreptitious picture of himself, with Geno drowsing beside him.

He sends the picture to Flower and Vero without a caption and laughs to himself when his phone immediately starts blowing up with incomprehensible French from both of them.

Sid turns his phone off. He’ll reply later. Right now, he has more important things to do, like curl up in Geno’s arms and doze away the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that [I'm on Tumblr](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com) for your flailing needs and would love to hear from you, either here or there. Thank you so much for reading, I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you guys liked it!


End file.
